Nothing More To Say
by youthere
Summary: Who would have thought a broken jaw could be the least of your problems....
1. Chapter 1

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

Thanks to Bulletbabe over at supernaturalville, who **beta'd **this for me. All remaining screw ups are mine alone.

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ONE

"Mister Hunter?" Dean grumbled as he climbed a brightly lit, carpeted staircase, a few steps ahead of his brother. "Mister _Hunter_?"  
"Sorry, I couldn't think of anything." Came a defensive mumble from Sam.  
"So you went with Hunter?! That's the worst alias we've ever had!"  
"Well, it is the most accurate"  
"Aliases aren't supposed to be accurate, they're supposed to be inconspicuous!"  
"Oh really _Mister Bonham_? Inconspicuous?"  
Dean cut off his brother's arguing with a restraining arm, stopping the younger hunter just before he stepped onto the top floor landing. "We clear on everything?"  
Sam sighed "Yeah, apartment 403. Werewolf."

A string of mysterious 'animal attacks' had caught the Winchester's attention two days earlier. Based on the lunar cycle they had come to the conclusion they were hunting a werewolf and had tracked the creature to this small, neat apartment building on the outskirts of town. It wasn't a very challenging hunt; the biggest problem had been getting past the doorman.

Dean shook his head again at the name his brother had given the man and decided he would definitely do the talking himself next time.  
"So," said brother whispered as they made their way to the correct apartment, "get in, put some silver in its heart, get out, pack. Should be simple."  
"Dude!! Jinx much?!" Dean hissed back as he aimed a good kick at the lock, "Don't say the S word!"

And, in fact, life didn't disappoint by being easy. They burst into the small, cozy apartment to find that their werewolf was actually three skin walkers, a male and two females.These were their favorite type too, the kind that had the ability to transform partially into animals; leaving them as intelligent and capable as humans but with the added bonus of fangs, claws and animal strength. In the ensuing fight, Sam's gun got knocked out of his hand, skidding across the floor under a couch, and he found himself unarmed and facing two very pissed off half-animals. He wondered sullenly if, at the moment he said 'simple', the werewolf had suddenly morphed into a skin walker, which had then split itself into three equally lethal creatures. Considering their lives, it actually didn't sound too crazy._  
_

The younger Winchester dodged a swing from a freaky hybrid of hand and paw. He could only see one skin walker, a female. That meant the male was either coming up behind him or going after his brother. In the chaos of this unexpected fight he'd quite lost sight of Dean. And the thought of his brother facing two skin walkers with no backup was proving scarier than the creature currently growling at him. Dodging yet another blow, he pivoted around taking in the rest of the room, trying to get closer to the couch that concealed his gun.

He spotted the lost skin-walker a second too late as he barreled in from his blind spot, knocking him off balance with a vicious kick to the gut. Forced to roll away from the coveted gun as the female literally pounced on him, Sam caught a glimpse of Dean. He'd also lost his gun but was having more success working his way back to where Sam's was, fighting.

He got back to his feet but found he was cornered in the far end of the room, the skin walkers now taking their time. Composing themselves. He'd nowhere to run. As the female tensed to spring he was vaguely aware of the sound of scuffling from Dean's side of the room, then two gunshots and a thump. One down...

"Sam, drop!" He'd half expected the command and obeyed it instantly.

Unfortunately, so did the skin walker, who managed to dodge Dean's shot and turned to rush him before he could recover his aim. Sam followed, unwisely taking his eyes off the other one, and realized his mistake too late as she launched her attack.

He managed to deflect her blow, landing a solid punch on her jaw and she reciprocated with unnatural swiftness, surprising him with a right hook of her own. Once he was off balance, she hooked her leg behind his ankle and swooped the feet from under him, landing him flat on his back on the floor. But her triumphant smirk turned curiously lifeless as a shot rang out, and her body crumbled, slumping to the floor in an undignified heap.

She landed on top of Sam, and although dazed, he managed to roll her off and look up, just in time too see the third creature take advantage of the distraction and make for the exit. Dean was in hot pursuit only a step behind but never made it out the door.

A swinging red blur and a sickening crunch of bones, and Sam was staring at his brother lying spread eagled just inside the door, out cold.

O

Sam leaned back in the plastic chair and squinted into the blinking fluorescent bulb right above his face.

_A fucking fire extinguisher. _

The creature must have picked it up in the hallway as she came through the door and swung right around with it, sending it full force into the face of her pursuer. Of course, the fact that Dean had been running headlong into the swing hadn't helped him any.

The doctor had accepted the younger Winchester's story of a mugger with a baseball bat without comment and he was hoping the man was too tired and too busy to realize that the weapon that inflicted his brother's injuries would have to have been much heavier than that.  
Sam didn't think he could have quite sold a mugger with a fire extinguisher.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the ghost imprint of the blinking light. It hovered purplish over a far too vivid image of Dean coming too on the floor; eyes cloudy, blood streaming from a split lip and a crooked set to his mouth that had nothing to do with his usual half smirk.  
The image was stark and clear and made a strange contrast to the rest of the images in his head, which were jumbled and incoherent. He had foggy impressions of blood and vomit and ... oh god... teeth on the floor? And his brother moaning, mumbling and... shit... crying?

Sam leaned his elbows on his knees, wincing slightly as the motion jarred some ribs he was pretty sure were bruised. His own injuries from the fight were starting to let themselves be known and his muscles ached with every movement.

It didn't ache half as bad as the knowledge of his failure, though.  
How the hell could he have let this happen? How could he even consider rushing in like that, with not enough info and no back up plan? Rushed and careless was how he'd worked this job, as if it didn't really matter. What, creatures were the least of their problems, so now they'd stopped being dangerous?! Stupid!!  
Shit, as if Dean wasn't reckless enough these days without Sam following his example. It had to be Sam now, who kept his brother alive, no matter what. And he'd screwed up royally tonight, Dean could have... He didn't even let himself finish the thought.  
Uh uh, not happening. Not ever. No more screwing up.

He forced himself to sit up again, fixing all his attention on the light blinking off the grey green wall in front of him. Grey green with a splash of red: a fire extinguisher screwed into the waiting room wall.

Sam gave it a long murderous glare and, oddly, felt a little better.

O

When the Winchesters came into town they had, at Sam's insistence, located a small, busy and under-funded clinic in a bad neighborhood. The doctors at places like these were less likely to call the cops, or at least did so later, leaving more time to get treatment for possible injuries and make an escape.  
Looking up at Dean's doctor now, the man did certainly look hassled and Sam found himself wishing he'd put his brother in the hands of a doctor with a slightly smaller workload and a slightly larger paycheck. He probably could have gotten away with it too; Dean and Samuel Cooke had pretty good insurance. Being fugitives sucked.

"So, you're sure the head injury isn't serious? I mean, it looked pretty bad." He asked the doctor.  
"Mister Cooke, a head trauma is never something to take lightly. But we aren't seeing any signs of cerebral bleeding or other serious damage to the brain, and your brother has remained conscious and more or less coherent. He has a concussion and it will probably take some days to recover from it, but he doesn't seem to be in any danger. Of course we want to keep him overnight and monitor him, but I don't think there's cause for concern."  
Sam couldn't help thinking that, the way things were gong these days, mere concern would be a nice break.  
He realized the doctor was still talking and mentally scolded himself, pulling his attention back to the man's words.  
"... is pretty badly broken and a few teeth were either knocked loose or shifted. I would recommend he see an orthodontist once the wires come off"  
Sam just looked blank and the doctor seemed to realize the young man was missing a piece of the conversation.  
"We had to wire your brother's jaw shut to be sure that it heals correctly, it's broken." He repeated himself patiently, quite used to dealing with people who were not having the best day. "The wires should keep the jaw immobilized and let the break seal itself in peace."  
Sam just stared at the man. "Wire it shut? His jaw?"  
The doctor nodded.  
"How long's he got to stay like that?"  
"Well, it's hard to say. We'll have to see how the bone heals up, but I'd say at least six weeks, maybe two months."  
"Two months?" Sam could hardly believe what he was hearing. Two months of essentially being mute?

_Oh yeah, Dean was gonna just love that.  
_  
O

Actually, Dean did look pretty ready to love. And share and blossom, and glide out the window in a cloud of rainbows .  
Sam scrutinized his face. "So... I see they gave you something for the pain..."  
Dean just gave a goofy grin, making his younger brother wince as he pulled on some stitches in his lip, and went to answer in the very affirmative. It was a full minute before he realized he couldn't get his mouth to open, and his face took on a puzzled expression. He wrinkled his brows and tried to fix Sam with a questioning stare. It would have worked better if he had been able to actually focus his eyes.  
Sam sat down on the bed and leaned into his brother's field of vision.  
"Dean, listen, you broke your jaw... Dean? Hey I'm over here"  
As Deans eyes found him, more or less, Sam started over.  
"You broke your jaw and the doctors had to set it with wires to let it heal properly."  
Dean made another attempt at speaking and Sam figured his brother was in no condition to decipher the gentle approach.  
"Dean. Listen. You can't open your mouth. It's wired shut."  
This seemed to sink in and Sam found himself looking down at a rabidly sobering big brother.  
"Hey, it's okay. It just needs to be set while it heals. And otherwise you're fine. A concussion and that's it, no big deal." Deciding to take the Pollyanna approach, Sam gave a nervous smile.  
"I mean if you think about it, it could have been worse."  
Dean sent his brother a dark look, that told him quite clearly just what would await Pollyanna if she ever decided to drop by again, and Sam sighed.

_Uh huh, __loving__ this..._

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**AN **I've had a love-hate relationship with this story for what seems like ages now, do tell me what you make of it :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

Thanks to Bulletbabe over at supernaturalville, who **beta'd **this for me. All remaining (and added post-beta read) screw ups are mine alone.

**AN **Here's the thing, hospital dramas rather bore me. No disrespect, just really not my cup of whatever. So while Dean is sick and out of sorts, I skirted much of the whole fresh-out of hospital issue. So let's just assume Dean is taking his pills and getting his sleep and his side effects and just chalk it up to off 'screen' time :)

For the same reason the medical parts of this story aren't exactly sound. I did quite some research, but also quite a lot f jumping to conclusions. If anybody out there finds him/herself knowing better, I apologize and do let me know...

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TWO

Sam breathed a sigh of relief as he fumbled his boneless brother into the Impala's passenger seat.

He had been tempted to simply take Dean and run as soon as the doctors had finished setting his jaw, but the glassy look in the older hunter's eyes and the swollen bruises already blooming spectacularly across the side of his face had scared Sam into staying.  
The doctor had eventually called in the cops, but thankfully the two bored looking beat cops that showed up had not studied the FBI's wanted list very carefully. They had simply accepted Sam's statement along with his fake name, filing the young man with the broken face away as a simple incident of random violence. Sam had a feeling his brother's case wasn't exactly a refreshing change for the two.  
The doctors had taken a similar stand and let the Winchesters leave in the morning with a promise to stay in the area and come back in if anything changed.

Still high as a kite from the pain meds and woozy from the concussion, Dean fell asleep as soon as Sam started the car, his face squashed up against the side window. Sam couldn't help chuckling slightly at the thought of informing his brother that he had left big sticky drool stains on his baby's window.

They got to the motel Sam had found them, only to discover that it had a '50 States' theme going and the Winchesters would be staying in 'Wyoming'.  
All the other states were currently occupied, the desk clerk informed his surprisingly upset young customer, unless he wanted Arkansas, which didn't have hot water at the moment.  
The promise of a hot shower outweighing memories of murder and mayhem (and wasn't that just so very healthy), Sam parked in front of the door to their designated state and woke his brother. Dean roused only long enough to allow his brother to drag him to bed and then promptly passed out again.  
He slept all through the day, not even stirring when a representative of Wyoming's roach population decided to make an appearance, and Sam squashed it loudly with the butt of a sawed off.

O

The next morning, Sam woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of the shower.  
He rolled over and eyed his brother's empty bed. He should have guessed that Dean would take the invincibility route out of this one.

He knew his brother had to be in pain, and probably woozy and tired as hell from the concussion and the medication. He also knew he wouldn't admit to that in a million years.

Just as Sam was pulling on his pants, Dean came out of the bathroom fully dressed, and the younger brother couldn't help gasping at the impressive look of the older's injuries.  
The jaw was swollen nearly double on one side and decorated with an amazing color palette of abused flesh, ranging from dark crimson all the way through pink and purple, and in some places already into a brownish yellow.  
It reminded Sam of one time their father had dragged them along to hunt a spirit haunting a slaughterhouse (which was apparently surprisingly common). The mounds of discarded intestines and torn muscle in the waste disposal area had been more or less the same colors as his brother's face right now.

Dean simply scowled at his younger brother's look of horror and threw a wet towel in his face. When Sam finished disentangling himself from it, Dean had already scooped up the rest of his clothes from the chair he'd laid them on the previous evening. He threw them on his brothers bed making an impatient gesture of 'let's go'.  
"Lets go? Go where?"  
Dean paused for a beat, then pinched the skin on the back of his hand and mimed walking. Sam couldn't help laughing and the older hunter shot him a look of annoyance.  
"Skin walker? You wanna go hunt a skin walker?"  
Dean nodded and Sam's expression sobered.  
"Dean, are you still high or something?"  
Dean held up one finger, surprisingly not the middle one.  
"Yeah, I know one got away, but dude, we're not going hunting!"  
Dean raised his eyebrows impatiently.  
"Why?" Sam interpreted, incredulous. "Because you have a broken jaw! You're seriously injured, medicated up to your eyeballs and can't make a sound."  
Disproving his brothers last argument, Dean gave an irritated grunt.  
"Okay, yeah great: you can grunt. Well that's all right then, grab your gun and let's go!" Sam gave his brother a beseeching look. "Come on man; just take some time and rest up. We'll stay here a while, I can do some research on demon deals and you can you know...heal. The skin walker probably skipped town already, anyway."  
When Dean still just glared defiance, Sam decided to bring out the big guns.  
"Okay, so how do you see this working exactly? Do you see yourself shouting a warning at me? How well are you going to be able to watch my back when you're on more drugs than Hunter Thompson?"  
At that, Dean seemed at last to deflate a little. He shrugged his surrender, sending a nasty spike of guilt through his little brother, and sat down heavily on his bed.  
A small grimace of pain crossed his face and Sam bit back the impulse to ask if he was okay. Right now he knew his brother would simply take that as rubbing in his victory.  
Instead he grabbed the clothes Dean had handed him, stood up and took a swig of his rapidly cooling coffee.  
"I'm gonna grab a shower. If we're gonna be staying here a while we should probably go get some food and supplies. And we're running low on salt."

O

After having stocked up on salt and lighter fluid, Sam suggested they also find the stationary department of the local supermarket and get Dean a writing slate.  
That simply earned him a thwack on the back of the head and a disapproving glare. Spared the obligation of explaining himself, Dean left it at that and took the lead in tracking down the food aisle, and Sam followed slightly puzzled.  
He suspected, however, that his brother's reluctance to carry a slate had less to do with issues like style cramping, than with his abject terror of showing weakness in any shape or form.

Food aisle found, Sam immediately started filling up the shopping cart with protein shakes and cup-a-soups. His older brother's face took on an expression of deep indignation as he watched the cart fill up, with what he would refer to as a lot of things but never as food.  
When Sam reached over to put a packet of spinach soup on the pile, he felt an iron grip on his wrist and looked up into two wide eyes asking quite clearly _'What the hell?!'_  
"Dude, there's a blender at the motel if you want to try and drink a burger through a straw, but that doesn't sound very appetizing to me."  
Dean rolled his eyes, unintentionally doing a pretty good Sammy impression, but conceded the point. However, he very deliberately plucked the spinach packet out of his brother's hand, replacing it with minestrone. If he had to eat soup, at least he wanted one that didn't look like someone had already eaten it and then given it back.

As Sam shook his head with a grin and returned to the shelves, a thought occurred to Dean. He tapped his ring against the metal of the shopping cart, getting Sam's attention. When his brother looked back at him, he stuck out his thumb and pinkie and tilted his head back in a drinking motion raising his eyebrows.  
"Beer? I don't know if alcohol is really the best idea right now."

Dean cocked his head and Sam was amazed by how effectively his brother could threaten bodily harm without speaking a word.

"Okay, I think I saw a liquor store down the street, we'll stop by... hey that reminds me, could you grab a packet of straws?"  
Dean nodded and set off down the aisle, compiling in his head what would probably have been an interesting string of curses if he'd been able to actually form words. Half way to the section with the party supplies (_party supplies- hah!_) he changed his mind and headed outside instead.  
Sam could take care of the goddamn shopping.

He sat down on the steps outside the shop, letting the sun warm him and calm his frazzled nerves. There was just something fundamentally wrong with the idea of drinking beer through a straw.  
Still, the day was warm and his jaw still comfortably numb, and sitting down had eased the throbbing of his head somewhat.  
_Well let's look on the bright __side; _he thought to himself, _at least Sam can't bug you into one of his Dr. Phil sessions for a while.  
_  
Lazily, he swept his eyes over the parking lot, watching the people coming and going in all kinds of cars; some cool and some lame. None as awesome as his baby, obviously.  
His eyes came to rest on a pretty brunette, standing quite close to the Impala and talking on the phone.  
Dean leaned his head to the side and let his eyes slide from one beauty to the other. The woman had a damn near perfect figure, curvy but firm, and her light summer dress covered just the right amount of flawless olive skin. She shifted her weight from one endless leg to the other and Dean grinned. There were worse things than temporarily loosing the ability to speak. At least he could still see.

Slinging back a long curtain of jet black hair, the woman looked up and directly at him, fixing him with dark and strangely intense eyes. Dean stared back giving her a crooked, closed mouthed grin (smiling wide wasn't on the top of his list of things to do today).  
He couldn't help a slight feeling of apprehension though, as she smiled back and started walking towards him. How exactly are you supposed to chat up a girl without, well... chatting?  
The apprehension bloomed into a small panic as she got closer.  
_What the hell __Winchester?__! Couldn't you keep your eyes to yourself, for friggin' once?!_

His smile was pretty much a frozen rictus by the time she came to a halt, next to the step he was sitting on. gracefully, she leaned on the banister and gave him another sparkling smile.  
"Hi." Her voice was soft and low with a slight Latino inflection. "I'm Clara."  
Dean gave a tight lipped smile and nodded. God, Clara did just look to delicious to a tongue tied man.  
She eyed him quizzically, obviously expecting something more than that in reaction.  
When he did nothing but repeat his restrained smile she shrugged irritably, muttered a "Yeah okay, suit yourself" and turned to walk away, demonstrating an ass just as perfectly shaped as the rest of her.  
Dean could have cried.

He took a deep breath and plunged in, swiftly grabbing her arm, not hard enough to be offensive but enough to stop her progress. When she turned a questioning look on him he flashed her a quick full version Winchester grin, this time with the addition of wires.  
He face fell and she stared at him with a mix of shock and curiosity. "What happened?"  
There was also a note of pity in her voice that made Dean regret his decision deeply. No woman was worth subjecting yourself to pity.  
When he didn't answer she eyed his bruises narrowly. "Were you in an accident?"  
The pity had made way for plain curiosity, so Dean gave a more relaxed version of his closed mouth smile, rolled his eyes slightly and brought his fists up in a mock boxer's stance.  
She laughed incredulously. "Bar fight?"  
He shook his head no, but then thought better of it. It was probably the easiest explanation. So he shrugged and nodded with a sheepish expression.  
She laughed again at his double gestures, the sound light and pleasant. "I would have pegged you as trouble" she said, leaning just a little further towards him, "but maybe not the bar fight kind."  
Delighted by the connotation, he glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who was coming out of the store and still looked quite ragged from the skin walker fight. He figured a little white lie was well within the bonds of brother solidarity.  
He nimbly fished a pen out of his pocket and scribbled on his palm '_My brother was getting his ass kicked_'. Then he showed her the sentence, gesturing over his shoulder at Sam with the pen.  
She looked over at Sam and then back at Dean, looking very intrigued. Dean gave her his very best 'noble hero' face.  
She cocked her head and flashed him a mischievous grin. "Let me guess... I should see the other guy?"

O

Sam stared incredulously at Dean's hand, with the line about the 'bar fight' at the top of the palm and '_855 6427 0268- XXX Clara_' just below it.  
"You picked up a girl? You picked up a girl with your mouth wired shut?!"  
Dean sent him a wide grin and brought both palms up to gesture towards his own chest, indicating that was indeed just how much he rocked.  
Sam just continued staring. "Well, how are you even gonna call her when you can't open your mouth?"  
Dean brought up his hand and mimed writing a text on a phantom phone.  
Sam gave an exasperated laugh and stuck the key in the ignition, "You wouldn't be stopped by a wrecking ball would you?"  
Dean just settled back in his seat with a self satisfied smirk, pushing back an imaginary cowboy hat as they pulled out of the parking lot.

O

Dean woke up to evening sun filtering through the curtains. _What the hell?_

Their little outing had wiped him completely and by the time they got back to the motel, his head had been pounding like a garage band was practicing up there. So when Sam sat down and started tapping at his keyboard, he had just laid down to close his eyes for a few minutes. Apparently, those were very long minutes.  
Hearing the staccato rhythm of the keyboard, he sought out his brother who was sitting hunched over the computer, like he hadn't gotten up since Dean fell asleep.  
Exactly like he hadn't gotten up.  
Dean groaned to himself, he knew exactly what had his brother chained to the computer. He wanted to tell Sammy to take a break, to please not drive himself crazy. That Dean couldn't stand watching him wear himself away, knowing it was partly his own fault...  
All he did do when Sam looked up was raise his hand in a quick 'good morning' ( _or evening, whatever)_ and scratch his chest.

He wished he could blame the fact that he really couldn't speak for the fact that he didn't. He really wished.

Returning his brother's salute, Sam sat up straighter; his face weary like it always was after fruitless bouts of this particular research. He stared vacantly ahead for a beat and then seemed to yank himself back to reality with an effort.  
"You know, it's weird" He said. "I've never heard of skin walkers moving in packs before."  
Dean smirked to himself. For all the big fuss about injuries and how they were resting up, his brother was still his same old obsessive self. Give Sammy a riddle and he just couldn't leave it alone.  
He looked up at Sam and shrugged.  
"I mean think about it" The younger brother continued, "In our whole lives hunting we've run into what? Maybe four skin walkers? And now three at once? As far as we know, shape shifting abilities are a genetic anomaly. What are the odds that three shifters would find each other just like that?"  
Dean mused on this for a while, staring contemplatively at his brother.  
His brother.  
An idea occurred to him and he gestured quickly between Sam and himself in a repeated gesture.  
"Us?" Sam looked puzzled. "Hunters?"  
Dean rolled his eyes, clearly stating that his little brother was a moron, and then mimicked rocking a baby.  
Light dawned on Sam. "Family. They were family." He paused for a second, face assuming a thoughtful expression "Siblings maybe?... All shifters by inheritance."  
Dean spread his palms. It was as likely a theory as any other. He got up and started towards the bathroom, leaving his brother to get his geek on by himself. As he passed, he heard Sam mutter quietly to himself the word "family".  
It may just have been that he was concentrating on the computer screen again, but his voice seemed to have a weary, mournful quality.

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**AN** Okay, in all fairness, it was more Clara that picked up Dean, but the point remains...

And yeah I know, concussed people on pain medication shouldn't drink alcohol, but I just couldn't deprive the poor man of his words AND his beer in one go :)


	3. Interlude

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

Thanks to Bulletbabe over at supernaturalville, who **beta'd **this for me. All remaining screw ups are mine alone.

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Interlude: How To Loose It In Seven Days.

O

Monday

Dean woke up with a foul taste in his mouth and the usual pounding headache.  
It had been four days now and at least he had learned to stifle the early morning-yawn. 'Cause starting your day by tensing sore and bruised muscles around a broken bone you can't move... it kinda sets the mood for the morning.

He could smell coffee and knew his brother was up. Hell, he knew without opening his eyes, exactly what Sam was doing. The same thing he did all day, every day now.  
Dean opened his eyes and saw Sam sitting at the small desk, hunched over a thick volume, the laptop humming contentedly at his elbow.  
_Whaddaya know Winchester, you must be __the psychic one._

Dean sighed and then threw his pillow at his brother's head. When Sam looked up with an irritated scowl, he made himself some glasses with his thumbs and index fingers. _Geek._  
Sam gave a tired smile. "Still haven't found a symbol for 'bitch' huh? There's coffee on the nightstand." And with that, he returned to his research.  
Dean looked over to see his coffee cup standing on the table, a bright pink straw sticking out of it. His brother better not have picked out that color on purpose.

Tuesday

Sam allowed himself a moment to stretch his back, and then went back to the huge volume of demon lore that he'd gotten on loan from Bobby. The book was yet another pile of useless information, but he plowed through it anyway and tried to ignore his brother, who was pacing the floor with a heavy tread. He knew Dean had never been good at having nothing to do, he was one of those people that never stopped. Which was an excellent quality in a hunter, actually. His brother made sure the weapons were clean; the car ran smoothly, they never ran out of cash and the hunts kept coming, all because he never stopped.

But right now? Right now Sam wished he could just shoot him with a tranquilizer.

Finally Dean stopped by the window. It was a short reprieve, though, because he started drumming out a rhythm on the glass, fast and agressive, and just irregular enough to be annoying.  
Sam sighed again. Only his brother would manage to be irritatingly loud with his mouth wired shut.  
"Dean! Knock it off would'ya?"  
Dean made a gesture, not a rude one like Sam had half expected, but quite unreadable.  
He stared blankly at his big brother, "Uh...?"  
Dean heaved a sigh and repeated his gesture.  
Sam still looked blank and so he repeated it for the third time.  
"Dean" the younger brother said impatiently, "For god's sake just write it down."  
Dean looked around the room and finally found a pen and a pad, both emblazoned with the motel's logo; a manic looking hedgehog vaguely shaped like the U.S. He scribbled something on it and threw it at his brother none too gently.  
Sam looked at the note critically. "Bored? Yeah, okay."  
He paused for a beat and then his face assumed an indignant expression. "Dude, how the hell was I supposed to get 'bored' from THAT gesture? Seriously?!"  
Dean responded by making a gesture his brother was sure to understand.  
"Yeah, that's mature." Sam huffed  
Dean made another gesture to suggest where his brother could stick maturity, and returned to the window.

Wednesday

Dean was starting to feel like he was stuck in a birthday bash from hell, doomed to play some demented party game for the rest of eternity. He was so sick of it, that he was even reconsidering his refusal of the writing slate. But he just couldn't bring himself to lug the thing around like a total twerp, so the friggin' charades continued.

And if this_ was _a party then, fuck, it had to be the most boring one he'd ever been to. He had already cleaned the guns, sharpened the knifes, gone over the talismans – hell, he'd done the laundry. Then he'd given the Impala a positively anal once- over, complete with the most thorough waxing session the vintage car had ever seen, cleaned the weapons again and annoyed Sam in every way he could possibly think of. And now he was back to doing absolutely nothing, watching crappy TV in their crappy motel room. Friggin' Wyoming of all places. _The Hellgate State -they should put that on one of those road signs._

A small voice somewhere in the backwoods parts of his mind wondered about gates. If the hounds would actually drag him through one, or if people just materialized in the pit. But it wasn't a voice he paid any attention to.  
_Ever. _

Flipping off the T.V., he stretched and clambered off the bed to go get something to eat. God, he hated soup. But Sam had been right; a liquefied burger was beyond gross.

Thursday

Sam closed the web-page he'd been reading, returning to the search engine with a disappointed sigh. Another whole night in front of the computer and all he'd turned up was a bunch of misspelled grade school quality essays from people who wouldn't know a demon if one whacked them over the head.  
That last page had looked promising, though. For a whole 40 seconds he'd actually thought he might be onto something.  
He hated when that happened. Every time it turned out to actually be nothing, it felt like his brother slipped just that much further away from him.  
Sam sat back down and dug into the stack of books from Bobby. He'd already been through every one of them, but maybe he'd overlooked something.

He jerked awake some time later and realized he'd been asleep face first in one of the books. The smell of musty paper overpowering in his nostrils, he stood up stiffly and tried to stretch out his aching back.  
His mouth felt as if he had eaten the book, not slept on it. He made his way into the bathroom to wash out the taste, secretly glad Dean was off somewhere and couldn't point out that he walked like Boris Karloff.

As Sam splashed some water on his face, he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He didn't look too hot, he had to admit.  
His face looked pale and stiff, the translucent skin under his eyes not in mere bluish shades but the rich, bloody purple of bruises. His eyes themselves looked glassy and swollen, irises surrounded by garlands of burst capillaries.

Yeah, well. He was still a lot better than Dean would be if his little brother didn't come through.

Sam drew a shaky breath past the sudden constriction in his throat and went to make more coffee.

Friday

In an attempt to salvage his sanity, Dean had taken to driving around the land surrounding the town, playing every cassette from his collection one after the other. He had day's worth of listening material after all; he could keep this up forever.  
But driving wasn't the same.  
He wasn't headed for the highway, the next state, the next job. He was just going 'round and 'round on the rural gravel, like a hamster in one of those squeaky wheels. He already knew every road out of town by heart, and they offered nothing new. There was no freedom in this, only time killed.

_Time. _"Time to research", Sam had said, "to heal, to rest. _And to think._"

Well, time alone with his thoughts was about the last thing Dean wanted. He knew where those thoughts would go: straight to the same place he was going himself in a few months. Nope, better to keep moving, hunting, talking. Keep bugging Sam, distracting them both.  
Only, how distracted are you, driving for the hundredth time down the same familiar road?

The last tones of his Deep Purple tape died out, and he fished out a random new one. He didn't stick it in the deck, though, but stared for a few seconds at the title scrawled on the plastic with a felt pen. _AC/DC - Highway to Hell_. He'd always loved this tape, but now he couldn't quite bring himself to play it.  
_See, this is what happens when you have time to think! Bloody random sybolism!_  
Disgusted, he threw down the tape and fished out a new one, stuffing it in the deck without glancing at it. A few seconds passed and then _The Who_ burst out, repeatedly asking him who he was.  
_Who who who who? _  
Before he realized what he was doing, Dean had punched the eject button and the tape came shooting out.

Then he simply tightened his grip on the steering wheel and continued the drive in silence.

Saturday

Dean isn't looking at him. He just stands there, face completely blank, staring at something out of sight. Sam wants to run to him, shake him, ask what's wrong. But for some reason, his brother is out of his reach.  
Then he hears it behind him. It's too truly evil, to truly come from an any normal hound's body. It seems to rise up from the ground itself, pass up his legs through his chest, and then slowly spread through every solid thing in ripples. The low bass notes quietly shake the world, twisting it's very fabric into something hideous.  
And then his brother does look at him, and in his face there is nothing but pure terror.  
Every nerve in his body is screaming at him to run to Dean, turn and face the hound, somehow come between them, somehow STOP IT.  
But all he can do is stare into his brother's eyes as blood begins to gush.

Sam jackknifed up in bed, heart hammering hard enough to shake his entire body. He sucked down a great gulp of air and stared into the darkness of the room, eyes wide open, searching for any familiar form. He needed something, anything normal and solid to tie him back to reality. To wrap the normality of the dark, quiet motel room around him like a shield against the nightmare world he'd just broken out of.  
But it was useless. His terrors wouldn't stay in his head any longer.  
The hounds would come for Dean and the real world would no longer be any different from his nightmares.

He could practically feel the blood flowing through his veins; every beat of his heart pumping poison through his body, making him a traitor, a murderer. Every lungful of air he took in meant one less breath for his brother, every gulp slowly killing them both.  
Sam didn't think it was possible to hate anything as much as he hated the feeling of his own heartbeat right now.  
It made him want to crawl out of his skin, out of his body, out of his mind.

Dean stirred in the next bed and Sam realized how loud he'd been gasping. He clenched his fist tight around the top of the cover, forcing himself to take slow measured breaths. He sat there for a long while quietly beating his body into submission.  
It wasn't going to happen. Hell, no. The answer was out there, it had to be. He just hadn't found it yet.

Wiping off his sweaty palms on the cover, Sam quietly got up and took the computer into the bathroom, so as not to disturb his brother.  
Dean needed to rest and Sam needed to. Figure. This. Out...

Sunday

Dean could tell that Sam hadn't slept. But then again he hadn't, either. He stared sightlessly at the infomercial on the cheap T.V. and let his thoughts swirl around in his head, like water water around a broken drain.

they should dig up more exorcisms; just the Romanum felt like packing too light

_... how long does it take to become a demon? Will it be in Sammy's lifetime?..._

they were running low on holy water, should find a church and restock

_... will I be a danger to him?... _

you can kill a yeti by beheading, that was new info. He'd always thought it was only with fire

_... is there actual fire in hell?..._

it would have been useful to know that in that hunt in Montana last year

_...how bad does burning hurt? Do spirits actually burn when we...?...  
_  
better load up on salt too, they always went through it pretty fast

_...a prison made of blood and bone and fear... _

Sam hadn't been eating either, he looked like shit

_... nothing else to say for you?... _

man that Clara chick had been hot. He should call her

_...maybe I deserve to be going there... _

did he loose 'Powerage'? It wasn't in the car yesterday

_...maybe Mom, Dad and Sam will be together someday. I'll be in hell..._

god he wanted to punch George Forman

_...I'll never see any of them again..._

He shot to his feet, just needing to move. Sam looked up as he stalked past, flinching slightly at the violence in his brother's movements. Dean ignored him, throwing open the door and heading out to the motel porch. He stood there for a long time, willing his breathing to slow down and his mind with it.

He didn't know where the thought had come from, or how long it had lain curled up at the back of his mind, but it wasn't new. It felt old and familiar, and thinking it was like suddenly recognizing a tune you've been humming for days. It was older than his deal, maybe as old as Dad's deal. Maybe it went back to those days in Roy Le Grange's little parish, or maybe it was some twenty five years old.  
But whenever it had started originally, it was flashing it's colors now; stark, clear and vicious in the forefront of his mind.

_You were always headed to hell._

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**AN/** Very angsty this one, I know. Over the top? Oh well, a bit more angsting in the next one and then some action...


	4. Chapter 3

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

Thanks to Bulletbabe over at supernaturalville, who **beta'd **this for me. All remaining screw ups are mine alone.

**AN/ **FiveForFighting09 pointed out to me that you actually _can_ speak with your mouth wired shut (see, I hadn't realized that, thanks for the pointer F), it just sounds weird. After some experimenting (go ahead, give it a try...) I found that a bit of rewriting would be necessary. Those parts are not beta'd, so all mistakes even more mine than usual...

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THREE

Flames rage, consuming the teddies and the airplane window curtains.  
They transform the nursery into a writhing whirlpool of forms; almost like an oil slick but so bright that it hurts to look at it. With watering eyes he watches his mother's face as she burns, her agonized features melting into the searing light.  
"Get your brother out of here, fast as you can!" His father shoves Sammy into his arms. "Now, Dean, go!"  
But he can't move.  
He stands there frozen as the flames start licking his father's face too. "Go, Dean! Please!" John screams, but he can't move.  
The look on his father's face when the flames take him is one of betrayal and despair, and as he looks down, the baby in his arms starts to burn. The flames lick his hands but don't hurt him as they tear into the warm little bundle.

And then the weight of his brother in his arms is gone, nothing left but an agonizing absence.  
He stands in the inferno that was his home and waits for the flames to end him too, but they don't.

As he looks up, the mottled greys and smoldering blacks stretch and bleed out to the horizon on every side, the air swirling dirty and hot.

He knows where he is, now.

Dean jerked up from the bed where he had been dozing with a muffled moan. Realizing where he was, he was for once glad of his wired jaw. It had kept his mouth shut until he was conscious enough to do it himself.  
"You Okay?" Sam asked, looking up from the book he was plowing through.  
Dean nodded and surreptitiously wiped the sweat off his palms on his jeans. He pointedly turned his attention back to the movie he'd nodded off from and waited until his brother turned back to his book.  
Once he did, however, Dean regretted this course of action. The room was uncomfortably silent, even with the tapping of the keyboard and the occasional explosion from the T.V., and the nightmare had left him shaken and wired.

Feeling the need to move, he got up off the bed and paced over to the window.  
Directly in his line of sight sat a huge neon sign, complete with the familiar misbegotten hedgehog and a giant map of the Americas, the United States outlined in stars and stripes.  
There was something odd about the map, though. Dean squinted at it for a while before it dawned on him. He had stared at enough maps of the continent to know exactly what it looked like, and this map was missing one p.c. Canada.  
He smirked. _Somebody's gonna get their ass kicked by angry Canucks. _  
His mind promptly conjured up an image of a raging hoard of livid Mounties, descending on the small motel like a vengeful red blizzard, all odd accents and righteous fury. Joni Mitchell perched on the back of the leader's stallion, bellowing at the top of her voice like a Valkyrie.  
Maybe he was still just high on adrenalin, but it did seem funny.

Turning from the window, Dean attempted to relay the thought to his brother.

After the worst of the pain had passed, the older hunter had been thrilled to discover you actually _can_ speak through you teeth. Okay, he sounded like he was badly drunk and under water, but with some patience his garbled sounds could be translated into actual words.

And yeah, the Winchesters brothers were just _swimming_ in patience these days.

To be fair, "vengeful Mountie" probably wouldn't have been anybody's first guess, even with the required good will. But Sam didn't put much effort into deciphering his brother's string of sounds, merely eyeing him tiredly; "What?"  
Dean repeated himself, with gestures this time, realizing it probably wasn't all that funny.  
He felt like an absolute fool when Sam still just looked blank and slightly irritated. The younger brother didn't repeat his question, just kept staring Dean down with a weary look bordering on condescending.  
Suddenly all Dean's frustration welled up in him, fueled by the lingering adrenalin and the suffocating silence.  
He just wanted to tell a goddamn stupid joke! Who cares if it's not funny?!

He just wanted to go back to being Dean Winchester and not some Buster Keaton freak who can't save his family and can't save himself and can't make a stupid fucking joke about Joni Mitchell. How the fuck was that too much to ask?!

Clenching his fists hard, he repeated himself yet again. _Goddamnit Sam, just fucking understand!_  
"Dean!" Sam all but growled, "Can you. Just. Write. It. Down. PLEASE."  
Dean grabbed the crazy-looking-hedgehog pad again and stabbed it with the pen, carving out his words more than writing them. Then he hurled it across the room into the opposite wall and stormed out, grabbing his jacket and car keys as he passed the desk.

"Dean!"  
The only answer was the slam of the state line.  
Sam picked up the pad. Scrawled on it in the erratic handwriting of a man fighting hard for his sanity, were the words: _'Timmy fell down the fucking well',_ followed by a long line of exclamation marks. He could hear the Impala pulling out of the parking lot, sounding just as grouchy as her owner, and guessed the two of them were off to the nearest bar.  
He didn't really like the idea of Dean taking off by himself right now, but Sam figured this was probably one of the times it was better to let his brother go. For one, it would keep his computer from getting shoved up his own ass.

Garbled or not, Dean had made that threat impressingly clearly the day before.

O

Ordering a drink without the ability to speak is not hard at all. Usually, rapping your knuckles on the bar and pointing to the Jack will do the trick. But now that push came to shove, Dean couldn't bring himself to stick a straw in his whiskey. That just had to be some kind of sacrilege.  
As he sat staring abjectly at his glass, he suddenly became aware of someone standing next to him. He looked up and his night got a whole lot better.  
Clara-from-the-parking-lot leaned onto the bar and gave him a dazzling smile  
"Rough day?"  
Dean snorted.  
She laughed. "Let me guess... I have no idea?"

O

As it turns out, you can have an excellent time in a bar even when unable to drink your whiskey. Obviously, Clara's presence had terminally ruled out the use of a straw, but Dean was quite happy with the trade-off. She was fun and charming and, good god, how hot could one woman be?

He knew he had to look like an idiot trying to wrap his battered lips around some of the words he said, but it was still so much easier with smiling, flirtatious Clara than exhausted, distracted Sam.  
A few hours later, her hand had come to rest on his upper thigh while the other fiddled with her straw (_girls were allowed straws- god were they ever..._) in an unbelievably sexy manner, and Dean had forgotten all about Canadians, spiraling brothers and nightmares.

When the bartender called last orders Dean was genuinely surprised. Time had flown by quickly and pleasantly, something that hadn't happened in a good while now.

He looked over at Clara and wondered if he could get himself an invitation to her place. But then his thoughts turned to Sam, whom he had left at the motel without a word. His little brother would be worrying by now and, despite everything, Dean felt positively rotten for causing that.  
A year or so ago, Dean wouldn't even have dreamed of ditching a hot chick just because his brother might worry. But then a year or so ago, Sam probably wouldn't have.  
He might have nagged and whined like little brothers do, but he wouldn't have been feeling actual, real fear.  
But a lot had happened in the space of one year and now, after Breward County, the kid seemed extra skittish. To be honest, Dean really couldn't blame him.

He turned to Clara and made his garbled apologies, getting ready to head back to the motel and bed. She sent him yet another dazzler of a smile; "We can stay a while longer, you know. They don't actually close for at least another half hour."

He shook his head mournfully, it was really time to get back.

She shrugged, looking a little disappointed. "Well, then I guess I'll just take off too." The smile returned and she leaned a little closer on the barstool, "This place won't be any fun without you, anyway. Can I bum a ride home? I left my car at work and I still haven't seen your girl."  
Dean was only too happy to oblige. He threw down a twenty for his undrunk whiskey and Clara's drinks (which had been put away rather more efficiently), and then escorted her to the waiting Impala.

O

Clara lived in an apartment building in one of the nicer parts of town. There were luscious trees and freshly cut lawns and the sidewalk had a line painted down the middle, dividing it between joggers and other pedestrians.  
As he pulled up to the curb, Dean noticed they even had those weird little garbage cans specifically meant for dog shit. People were crazy.  
She caught him smirking at the cans.  
"Okay yeah, it's slightly nuts and I really don't mind having to share a sidewalk when I'm jogging." She looked around appraisingly. "But I like it. It's quiet and organized, you know? Safe."  
Dean didn't know what expression to put on for that. Nowhere was safe.  
She seemed to jerk out of her thoughts and turned towards him, leaning slightly into the driver's side.  
"Thanks for the... chat." She smiled. "I was really glad to run into you."  
Now, Dean had really been planning to head straight back, but damn if this wasn't the coolest chick he'd met in ages. There was no harm in kissing her and seeing where things went, was there? He'd let Sam know if he ended up... taking a detour.  
He leaned in, breathing in the musky smell of her perfume, and wondered briefly how the hell he was supposed to pull this off without the use of his tongue.

That problem, however, never had to be solved.  
He heard a rustle of something behind him, but didn't get time to turn around. There was a silent explosion of darkness somewhere just behind his head, and he found himself tumbling helplessly in it's shock wave. He tried to struggle out of the mass of nothingness spreading over the world, but a second explosion slammed him under and he was lost.

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**AN/** As always, love to hear what u think :)


	5. Chapter 4

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

Thanks to Bulletbabe over at supernaturalville, who **beta'd **this for me. All remaining screw ups are mine alone.

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FOUR

Waking up to pain is always a bad sign. It either means that a hunt has gone wrong and you now have to face the consequences, or that you're in the middle of a hunt gone wrong, and will have to try to survive long enough for there to be consequences.  
Well, either that, or you just snagged yourself one hell of a hangover. Dean bit back a moan and pried his eyes open, fervently hoping that this was the case.  
The first thing he saw was a pair of large dark eyes, vacant and glassy. It took him a moment to place them but then recognition dawned, searing bright like a nuclear sun.

He was lying on his side on the floor with his hands tied behind his back and staring directly into Clara's dead eyes. Blood had pooled around a wound on her left temple and a thin rivulet was snaking its way down the side of her face.  
As Dean watched it reached her left eye, welling up a second at the corner of it before continuing down, squarely through the middle of the broken pupil.  
Dean sucked in a harsh breath and squeezed his own eyes shut, knowing that was one more image he wouldn't ever be able to forget.

That was when he heard a scuffling sound on the floorboards by his head. He opened his eyes just early enough to catch a glimpse of a boot headed straight for his face.

O

The pain hadn't lessened any the second time he woke up.  
No doubt aided by the earlier boot-in-the-face, it was now snaking it's way all through the right side of Dean's face and twirling hot around his broken jaw, before heading out for every extremity of his body in throbbing bouts.  
He realized his chin was resting on his chest and recognized the position depressingly quickly.  
Tying people to chairs just didn't get old, did it?  
He opened his eyes, squinting against the light and fighting down a sudden bout of overwhelming nausea. As he had guessed, he was tied to a chair in what looked like a cozy little living room. A small apartment, he'd say. Maybe Clara's.  
His eyes found the girl's huddled form, still on the floor, and he swallowed thickly.  
Whatever had him tied to the goddamn chair had obviously not been after her. No, he was pretty sure he was looking at collateral damage.  
At the thought, a vision of a rivulet of blood meandering it's way through an empty dark eye, swam before his own eyes and he squeezed them shut again.

Again, the sound of boots on the floorboards warned him of a presence in the room and he opened his eyes to see a figure entering.  
It was the escaped skin walker, a short but deceptively muscular brunette with a sharp freckled face. Dean rolled his eyes. _'Skipped town already' huh? Oh, Sammy's gonna get his ass kicked!_

The woman walked up to him and wordlessly threw him a left hook, jarring whatever injury she had managed to create with her boot earlier. Dean couldn't help groaning. Her fists were no softer than her feet.  
"Hurts huh?" Her voice was rough with barely contained rage. For a second she looked like she was going to say something more, but then she seemed to change her mind and simply punched him again. This time the blow landed squarely on his jaw, causing his teeth to grind together and pain to flair up all through his already broken face. For a moment he lost his breath in the wave of it, god that hurt more than a punch should.  
He could taste something sweet and warm in his mouth and realized she'd managed to reopen his split lip. He tried to spit out the blood, but through a closed mouth managed only slightly more than a drool.  
She grinned triumphantly, light glistening of canines, way more canine than they should be.  
"You come barging into my home, slaughter my family and then you think I'm just gonna run away? Didn't even try to find me, did you?"  
She leaned down over him, her index finger suddenly coming to an end in a long curved claw.  
Up close it looked nothing like a blade, or the graceful ivory one might imagine. It looked yellowish, thick and jagged, a solid build up of a bone like substance. Animal, worn and fucking scary.  
She hooked the claw into the split in his lip, making his eyes water as she prepared to tear down further.  
"My brothers and sister were all I had and you took them away. Don't think for a second you're not gonna have to pay for that."  
Dean would have given his right hand to be able to give a cocky, flippant answer to that. He could actually think of about five at the moment, but talking was definitely off the menu again. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and try to block out the sensation of her claw burrowing into his flesh  
"Almost two weeks I've been watching you now," came her low voice, breath warm on his face, "you and your brother. You were easier to catch with your wandering off but don't worry, I'll get to him too. You'll both pay."  
With a feral snarl, she dug her claw even deeper into his wound, then ripped it out swiftly.  
He tried to choke back the cry of pain, but it tore from him anyway, muffled but raw in the silence of the empty apartment.

O

Eventually, he lost track of time.

He didn't know how long he'd been there, what with the starting off unconscious, and the... fuck...the pain. But he was sure it had been too long. Sam should be looking for him by now.  
He hoped to hell that his brother hadn't just assumed he'd be spending the night with some girl. He had to know Dean wouldn't just disappear on him. Had to. Right? _Fuck Sammy, where are you? _

He'd worked his wrists bloody trying to find some give in the rope holding him down, but it was useless. The chair was rickety and he probably would have been able to use that to break free somehow, but not with the skin walker's attention on him at all times.

And boy, was her attention ever riveted on him.

She hadn't really gone all out (yet), Dean was sure she could have broken something by now. But she seemed in no hurry, taking slow delight in dissecting every bruise on his battered face with a clawed finger, tearing the already abused flesh and letting fresh rivulets of blood add to the plethora of color.  
Every now and again she seemed to get bored with slow, though, and simply dug her claws up to their roots in an arm or a thigh.  
All Dean could do was press his tongue to his teeth and try to keep from screaming.  
Not that he was doing an awesome job with that, he thought ruefully. _Fuck Sammy, just get here!_

O

Under the circumstances, he probably should have been glad when he finally heard his brother's voice through the haze of pain.  
Instead all he felt was a jolt of terror. _Fuck Sammy, just get out of here!_

He looked up to see Sam standing in the doorway, gun raised and aiming steady. Well, why didn't he just shoot?! _Oh right, self in the way. Good call._  
Dean couldn't really decipher the exact words spoken, through the thunder of blood in his ears, but he felt the jagged edge of the claw against his own throat and saw the hesitation in his brother's eyes.  
Then, saying something in that sensible tone he had, Sam slowly laid the gun on the floor and got up, holding both palms out in an attitude of surrender. He walked slowly into the room and closer to the chair, eyes on the skin walker behind the bound hunter.  
Dean felt the claw shift against his throat, slightly away from it now, and realized the creature's mistake at the same time as his brother.  
It had allowed Sam to come too close. As the creature's claw shifted, he lunged at it's arm, wrenching it away from it's captive and tackling it to the floor.

Sound returned to Dean as both hunter and skin walker crashed to the floor behind him.  
He could hear scuffling and the sound of punches, flesh impacting on flesh.  
He strained desperately against his bonds as the sound of fighting behind him became louder, both opponents scrambling to their feet. But he couldn't see anything over his shoulder.  
He heard his brother shout out, definitely in pain. _Fuck Sammy, what's going on?!_

As Dean squirmed, the creaky chair shifted under his weight. Someone or something -_please, please something_- got kicked behind him and there was a thump like something hitting the floor, or maybe a up his mind, Dean quickly braced himself and then swung his body hard and swift to the left. The chair toppled and crashed to the ground. All his own weight and that of the chair landed on his left shoulder and upper arm, the impact crushing the appendage painfully and jarring his injuries. The blinding pain threatened to knock him out, but Dean wouldn't let it.

Breathing deeply through the pain, he tested his bonds. As he had hoped, the impact had also jarred the chair causing a slight give in the ropes.  
He quickly started to wriggle his hands free, spurred on by a positively feral growl from behind him followed by the sound of another blow.  
He finally got loose and scrabbled on hands and knees to where Sam's gun was still lying by the door.  
Only when he had it in his hands did he turn around to look for his brother.

Sam was pinned up against the wall, hands locked around each of the skin walker's wrists and straining to keep her now fully extended claws away from him.  
The skin walker stood with her back to the room leaning all her weight on the hunter, a low menacing growl snaking it's way up from her throat the entire time. The jagged yellow edge of one claw was inching it's way closer to Sam's jugular, the skin walker's preternatural strength slowly winning out against the human muscle fighting it.  
Every bone in his body aching but hands steady, Dean lifted the gun and fired three bullets into the creature's back.  
She gave a startled, animal sound and then slumped to the floor, one of the silver bullets obviously lodged in her heart. Sam toppled down on top with a surprised grunt, still clutching her wrists.

Dean dropped the gun with a sigh of relief and clambered to his feet.  
Sam looked up, "Are you all right?"  
The older hunter looked down at his little brother still flat on the floor, tangled in the limbs of the dead skin walker. Crossing his wrists with his palms to his chest and hooking his thumbs together, he waved them like a pair of wings and gave a victorious smirk.  
Sam just stared for a second and then gave the eye roll of a man very put upon "Dude. That does so not make you Batman."  
But he couldn't help a small smile curling up the edges of his mouth as he made his way over to his brother and slipped a supportive arm around the older hunter's waist.

Dean went to draw back but found he just might topple over if he did. The room seemed to be swaying gently and his whole head throbbed painfully in rhythm with his heartbeat.  
Sam looked at him worried and then over at the skin walker's body.  
"Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't think it was a good idea for us to hunt her, it just didn't occur to me that she might try to hunt us. I should have realized... I should have realized that she'd want revenge for her brother and sister."  
Dean just shrugged and clapped the younger man on the shoulder once. _Not your fault._  
He looked up at Sam questioningly and as if reading his mind his brother answered.  
"How did I find you? You know how I've complained that the Impala is too conspicuous? Well, turn out that's also a positive thing."  
Dean grinned. _That's my baby!_  
"Come on, let's go. I'll come back and burn the carcass after I get you patched up." Sam said, turning to leave.  
Dean, feeling a little steadier, disentangled himself from his brother's supportive hold and bent down to retrieve the gun.  
He ran his eyes over the room and came to a halt again on Clara's body.  
He hadn't really known her. She was just a pretty girl who thought she'd met a fun guy for some good company and possibly some harmless fun. Boy, had she ever been wrong.  
And now she was dead because of Dean Winchester.

"This isn't your fault, you know."  
Sam was looking at him as if reading his mind again. It would get really annoying if he were to keep that up.  
Dean just shrugged non committally and turned away. His lips still wouldn't obey him and this wasn't really a conversation to mime out.

But the fact was that he'd done this. His life had become way too complicated, way too dangerous to allow civilians to get involved, however casually. He should have remembered that. He should never forget it. And now, yet another person had payed for him screwing up.

He looked up at Sam, still giving him that excruciatingly empathic look, and impatiently shoo'd him out of the way.

The brothers made their way outside.  
Sam was walking a little ahead but kept shooting worried glances back to Dean every now and then, until Dean positively growled at him and waved him to keep walking. The pain in his head was spiking again and he could feel nausea slowly taking hold, bile burning the back of his throat.  
He slowed down, taking deep measured breaths. Throwing up in his present condition did really not bear thinking about. He thought about making a sound to alert his brother, who was now a good way ahead of him with his long stride, but decided to give it just a minute and see if the nausea cleared.  
His whole body was throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he found himself fighting hard to not just slump down on the ground and stay there.

Which was probably why he didn't see the fourth skin walker coming.


	6. Chapter 5

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

Thanks to Bulletbabe over at supernaturalville, who **beta'd **this for me. All remaining screw ups are mine alone.

**A/N: **

**Point** of interest: Dean's mime for Batman in the last chap is borrowed from The Penguin in Batman Returns- yet undefeated as the best Batman movie ever.

**Also,** renewed apologies to the medically minded out there, I have no idea if I got Sam's injuries right...

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FIVE

The creature seemed to simply materialize out of the darkness, cannoning into Dean and knocking him to the ground. He fumbled Sam's gun under the sudden onslaught and it skidded out of his hand onto the sidewalk.  
He let out a surprised groan as his head connected with the ground, sending the world spinning yet again. Through the haze he heard someone shouting and, squinting, he could just make out the skin walker standing up and turning towards Sam, who was sprinting back to his fallen brother.  
Dean didn't even realize the thing had the gun until it lifted it's hand to point it at his brother, the metal glinting evilly in the subdued light from the lamp posts.  
Sam didn't see it in time either.  
He came running straight at the creature and before Dean could move a muscle, it fired two shots squarely at the approaching hunter's chest.  
Sam made a surprisingly low sound, something between pain and surprise, and then tumbled bonelessly onto the footpath.

Later, Dean was sure he'd made some kind of sound. At any rate, the skin walker had turned to face him by the time he was on his feet. But it never got time to bring the gun around before the hunter tackled it.  
Dean pinned the creature's gun hand down and drove his fist into it's face, hard but almost mechanically. He could feel bone crunch and it occurred to him distantly that he didn't know if it was his hand or the creature's face.  
He really didn't care; he didn't have time for this. He had to get to Sam. Prying the gun out of the skin walker's grasp, the hunter quickly and unceremoniously unloaded a bullet into it's heart.  
It wasn't until then that panic truly hit him.  
Legs suddenly too weak for his own weight, Dean half fell off the dead skin walker and stumbled towards the crumpled heap that was his little brother.  
He collapsed on the ground at Sam's side, not sure if he was kneeling or falling. A part of his muddled mind half expected his knees to hit cold South Dakota mud, but instead he found himself in fragrant, well groomed grass.  
Ha hadn't even managed to catch his brother this time.

Dean's numb fingers found Sam's artery and he let out a shaky breath discovering that although weak, there was a pulse there. His hand came back covered in blood and he realized why. One of the bullets had landed in Sam's neck and, as he stared at the dark crimson, Dean became aware of a wet wheezing sound coupled with each of the younger hunter's breaths.  
He quickly located the wound and applied pressure, silently praying he wouldn't accidentally choke his baby brother while trying to keep him from bleeding to death. With his free hand he fumbled in his pocket, fishing out his phone.  
Heart racing, he dialed 911, his blood slicked fingers slipping on the digits.

"911. What's your emergency?"  
Dean stared at the phone in horror. Shit, he hadn't thought of this!  
"911. Hello?"  
He growled inarticulately into the receiver, the sound coming out harsh and desperate, numb lips refusing to cooperate.  
"Hello? Are you hurt? Can you speak?"  
Dean positively screamed at the operator, pressing the sound out between clenched teeth, willing the man to understand.  
"Sir? Has there been an accident? Is someone hurt?"  
"Mhm mhm" Dean nodded madly, even knowing he couldn't be seen. He realized he was unconsciously trying to pry his jaws apart as if he could simply tear the wires open and scream at the man to come save his brother.  
"Sir? It's alright. Just stay on the phone, keep the line open. I can track your position, I'll send an ambulance"  
"Mhm" Dean practically sighed into the phone laying it carefully on the ground keeping the connection open and then turning his attention back to Sam.

His brother looked horrible. In the time Dean's attention had been on the phone, all color had drained from his face. The terrible gurgling sound from his breathing was not only nerve wrackingly loud now, but also losing it's rhythm.  
_There were two shots. There were two shots! _  
Dean quickly swept his eyes over Sam's torso and spotted slight bubbles in the middle of a sea of blood pooling on his chest. _Shit_.  
He pressed his free palm against the chest wound, still keeping pressure on Sam's neck and scrutinized his brother's pale face. The younger man's lips had taken on a bluish tint and the warmth of his blood, bubbling up against Dean's hands, made the older hunter sick to his stomach.

All Dean wanted was to mutter reassurances to Sam, to lay a comforting hand on his face and tell him it would all work out, it would all be okay. But he couldn't move his hands and he couldn't speak a word. He knew his brother was probably beyond hearing any of his promises, but he desperately needed to give them anyway.

He sat there in the dark and the silence for what felt like hours, staring at his brother's stark white face, bile and words burning in his throat.

O

Dean stared blearily at the blood coating his hands. His brother's blood. He wanted it off.  
He knew that theoretically it would be easy to walk over to the bathroom just off the waiting area and wash his hands. And he wanted to. God. The blood was burning his hands like acid.  
But he felt miles away from his own feet right now. Miles away from anything as real and every day as washing your hands. He doubted he'd ever be in the same universe as feet and bathroom sinks again.  
_What if he dies?_  
Small drops of blood were dripping off his hanging hands onto the floor, but that didn't matter. He'd never be in the same universe as linoleum floors again either, anyway.  
_What if he dies?_  
The cops would be there soon, he knew. The ambulance had taken them to the ER of the larger city hospital but even at the clinic from two weeks ago, a doctor faced with an injury like Sam's would waste no time in contacting the proper authorities. Dean knew this. He just couldn't bring himself to care.  
_What if he dies?_

And then the thought struck him like the gleaming blade of a guillotine, swift and mercyless.  
_Of course there was another skin walker!_ The thing had told him as much!  
She'd said 'brothers' plural, and he and Sam had only killed one male. She had practically told him there was another male out there.  
It was so glaringly obvious now that it took his breath away. It made him never want to breathe again. How could he not have seen it? How could he have let this happen? How could he have failed his little brother again?! God, he should burn in hell. He deserved it!  
_And god, what if he dies?!_  
Gasping for air through a suddenly constricted throat, Dean buried his head in his blood covered hands and squeezed his eyes shut.  
He wanted nothing more than to disappear from the world there and then- to heaven or hell, he didn't care.

O

Dean didn't know how long someone had been calling his name.  
Well, not actually his name, but that didn't matter. He'd answered to so many names in his life, that by now he recognized the tone of being addressed rather than the actual name used.  
He looked up and guessed from the expression of horror on the doctor's face that he must be making an impressive sight, covered in bruises, cuts and blood.  
But, like with anything else not concerning his brother at the moment, he didn't give a crap.

When the doctor did nothing but stand there and gape at him, Dean banged his fist against the chair next to him and scowled. The man seemed to snap out of his trance and sat down next to him, clearing his throat.  
"Mr. Meeks...uh, are you sure you don't want me to take a look at your injuries? I think you might need stitches for some of these cuts..."  
Dean shook his head and fixed the doctor with a questioning, if not a slightly threatening stare.  
"Mr. Meeks, your brother is very lucky. He lost a lot of blood, but his injuries are not as severe as they seemed at first. The bullet to the chest did some damage to his lung, but it didn't collapse. He is breathing on his own and we are managing to bring his blood levels up."  
The doctor paused for a second and Dean grunted in impatience.  
"The bullet to his throat didn't jeopardize his airway like we originally feared. It did graze his trachea, but most of the damage was to muscle and sinew, which should heal fine given time. His throat will be very sore for a while and he will probably not be able to speak for some time."  
Dean snorted, and the irony wasn't lost on the doctor either.  
He gave a small smile. "It should be about two months before he can comfortably use his voice again. In the meantime the two of you should probably learn some signs."  
The doctor stood up, extending a hand to Dean. "Your brother is going to be fine, Mr. Meeks, you can go see him if you want."

"He's in room 107" he added, walking away, "I'll send someone to take you to him."  
Dean stood up with a sigh of relief. Okay. Sam was going to be okay. Time to get the hell out of there.

Dean knew his brother was really in no condition to go anywhere, that the only right place for him was right there in a hospital bed. But, being Wichesters, they just didn't have that option.  
It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. Hell, life friggin' sucked. But as long as his little brother was still around to live it, Dean could deal with that.  
Sam was okay and so, Dean was okay. Anything else they could fix.

His relief lasted about 15 seconds, or until he looked down the hall to see the doctor shoot him a quick look of rigidly controlled apprehension.

That look set off every alarm in the young hunter's mind. The man wasn't on his way to make a protocol gunshot wound-call to the local precinct, he had a much more serious call to make, to a much higher authority.

And suddenly, Dean found himself caring very much.

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**A/N: **

**Okay**, the guilt trip in the waiting room is a little gratuitous but, as is probably obvious from the story so far, I have a thing for pattern, repetition and mirror images. Making the two waiting room scenes a little similar just gives me a warm fuzzy feeling. Besides, if anyone could manage to claim the blame for missing a slight grammatical hint, it would probably be a Winchester.

**Also,** the next bit may take while coming... this was supposed to be the second last chapter but then I didn't feel I'd gotten the brothers into quite enough trouble, so I added that last bit on the spur of the moment. So, as for how I'm going to get them out of the hospital... you'll know as soon as I do :)


	7. Chapter 6

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

This chapter is **unbeta'd**. Be merciful :)

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SIX

It had been a long night.  
He'd picked up a girl, gotten her killed, gotten knocked out twice, been tortured, shot a skin walker, punched out another skin walker and then shot it, watched his brother almost die, and now he was probably about to get arrested. It had been a very long night. But, as Dean watched his brother's doctor disappear through that door no doubt in frantic search of a phone, he had a feeling the day was going to be even longer.

Looking a lot calmer than he felt, Dean followed the doctor as fast as he dared. The door the man had disappeared through apparently led to another hallway, and Dean found him again standing by another door just at the beginning of it, hand still on the knob. The doctor jerked slightly as he saw the hunter enter the hallway but by the time Dean had walked up to him, his face was nothing but calm and friendly.

"Mr Meeks? Is there anything else I can help you with?"  
Dean had to admit, the man was impressive. If he hadn't surprised that one look out in the waiting room, the hunter probably never would have suspected anything was wrong. And even now, faced with what he probably believed to be a phsyco killer straight out of a horror movie, the doctor managed to seem completely at ease. They must have some interesting poker nights in the staff lounge.  
But good as he was, he hadn't had Dean Winchester's lifetime training. Dean plastered on his own most serene, oblivious smile and cast around in his mind for a plausible excuse to get the doctor into the room they were standing by. Then he remembered that he wasn't exactly in a position to fast talk anybody.

He sighed in frustration and quickly checked the hallway to make sure no one was watching. Then, moving so swiftly the doctor didn't have time to make a sound, he yanked the unfortunate man inside by his collar and threw him a right hook, promptly knocking him out.  
Closing the door behind them, Dean quickly scanned the room. It was an office, sparsely furnished but dominated by a large, impressive mahogany desk. Giving a mental shrug, the hunter quickly bundled the hapless doctor under it and then stood back and observed his handiwork.

The man who had saved his brother's life lay curled up between the drawers each side of the desk, his chin resting oddly on his knees and his face blank. His collar was smeared in bloody hand prints and a red patch on his cheek promised a handsome bruise.  
Dean grimaced. _If I wasn't going to hell before..._

O

Now, Dean had always had a hard time believing this, but every now and then, the universe will do you a favor. Coming out of the doctor's office, the young hunter actually found himself in the same hallway as Sam's room was, and was able to find it without any trouble. A security guard in the hall eyed him with curiosity but no suspicion, assuring him he'd gotten to the doctor before he had time to raise the alarm.

Room 107 was large and airy, a couple of doors down from a nurses station. It had a huge observation window that put Dean in mind of a fishbowl or, more disturbingly, a pervy peepshow.  
The opposite wall was also floor to ceiling window and the noon sun flooded the room, illuminating Sam's pale, lax features and forming bright shafts of light on the cover tucked over him.  
For a full minute Dean just sat in his chair by the side of the bed, taking in his brother's still face and listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor by the bed. The strong rhythmic sound was more calming than a bottle of tranquilizers and he had to admit, he could use some of that.  
Because he had no idea how they were getting out of there.  
Sure, he had intended to be long gone by the time the cops got there, but he'd assumed he'd have a little space to plan the escape. The earlier Rocky impression had bought them maybe twenty minutes, but having been recognized, those were all the minutes they'd get.  
And how the hell was he supposed to fix this in twenty minutes?

Dean's mind had been churning ever since the waiting room, trying to come up with any means of escape, but each plan was crazier than the next and none were actually doable.  
He had no time, he had no help and he was in no condition to talk his way out of anything.  
They'd pulled off some pretty impressive escapes before, but all of those had a conscious, walking talking Sam in common.  
Under other circumstances, he'd probably just have snatched a wheelchair and snuck his brother out the back door unnoticed. Or snatched some scrubs and rolled him out on a gurney, through the morgue if necessary.  
But one look in the mirror had assured him that he wasn't getting out of there without turning heads. Concussed and exhausted, minus one genius and plus one 6' 4'' stretch of dead weight, Dean was finding himself torturously short of options.

He let his eyes roam his surroundings idly, and came to a halt on a patch of bright red against the institutional egg colored wall. A fire extinguisher, the beginning of all their troubles, was mounted on the wall just outside his little brother's room. It just sat there, the bloody thing, mocking the helpless, scowling hunter.  
He promised himself that if they did make it out of there, the first thing he'd do would be snatching it and using it for target practice. But of course, given their luck lately, the bullets would probably ricochet and take his leg off or something.

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. Ten more minutes and that would be it.  
Well, at least he had a plan for that. He would offer the FBI a full confession in exchange for Sam's freedom. He didn't think for a second they'd go for that, but maybe he could get his brother a shorter sentence. He'd tell them he'd blackmailed Sam into helping him, threatened him. Hell, he'd tell them it was him who shot Sam. They couldn't cross question an unconscious man, could they?  
If he just gave them what they wanted, maybe Sam would serve less time.  
_Less time. Jesus._ It wasn't good enough.  
He stared at his his brother, lying there helpless and oblivious. It wasn't good enough.  
_No. Screw this, we're getting out of here._  
Dean scanned the room desperately for something, anything that might help, but came up empty. In the hallway, two nurses shot him suspicious glances, and in the parking lot a man walked up to a gray Toyota just outside the window, obviously headed home.  
And then down the hall, someone started shouting about a gurney and calling security, and he knew he was too late.

Out in the hall, both the suspicious nurses craned their heads to see what was going on. One of them started down the hall with a curious expression and the other stared fixedly after her.  
Outside the window, Toyota guy still stood by his car, keys in hand, chattering away on a cell phone and in no hurry.

Dean stared at him. Sometimes, the universe _will _do you a favor.

Before he even fully realized what he meant to do, Dean had jumped to his feet.  
Then he grabbed the chair with both hands and spun around, throwing it into the large window, as hard as he could. He didn't have time to turn his back, but put his forearms over his face to shield it from the rain of splinters.  
The rain of splinters that never came. The chair simply hit the window with a loud, gong like sound and rebounded right off it. It hit Dean hard in the stomach, taking his breath away, before clattering to the floor.  
Staggering, Dean stared dumbfounded at the chair. This worked it every movie he'd ever seen! What the hell?!  
The man outside had stopped talking on the phone, and simply stood dumbstruck, staring at Dean through the window. But Dean was past surrender now. He had found a way, and he and his brother were _getting out_.

He scanned the room frantically for something heavier to use and saw the nurse out in the hall start towards Sam's room at a fast pace. She shouted something over her shoulder and Dean didn't have to read lips to know it was 'call security'.  
He sprinted out into the hall and wrenched the fire extinguisher off it's mount.  
Before the nurse could take more than a few steps he was already back in the room, running full tilt at the window and swinging. He heard frantic yelling behind him as he brought his hands up in front of him, sending the heavy cylinder through the window. He only let go when it's momentum threatened to pull him out after it.  
The window, being the old fashioned non tempered kind, broke into tiny fragments around his grasping hands, filling the air with crystalline glitter for a split second. The majority of the huge glass slab cracked into two large continents, each balancing against the other in the window frame for a moment. Then they fell outwards to land in the parking lot in an explosion of splinters.

Dean had already turned around by the time they hit, bending over his brother.  
"What the hell are you doing?!", came the nurse's shrill voice from the doorway, but he simply shot her a dark scowl. He must have managed to look pretty scary, because she actually stumbled in her haste to back away.  
Ignoring her frightened cries for security, Dean pulled his unconscious brother across his left shoulder into a fireman's carry and staggered to the window.  
Staggered was right. His exhausted muscles screamed under Sam's weight and, in the few steps it took to get to the opening, his vision clouded over completely. Dean grabbed the window frame to ground himself and sucked in a heaving breath. His vision cleared somewhat and he stumbled out through the opening, ignoring the stab of pain where a shard from the window frame had cut into his his palm.

The Toyota man probably could have fought Dean for the car keys. Hell, he probably could have won. But he simply stared in horror at the bleeding, grim faced man that came staggering out of the shattered window, carrying another man's body like a maddened warrior out of a barbarian epic. Dean grabbed the keys out of his unresisting hands and the man, much like the nurse, simply yelped and staggered backwards.

Turning to the car, Dean fumbled his brother into the back seat as gently as he possibly could and hoped to hell he wasn't ripping all his stitches or something worse.  
He could hear more voices shouting from the broken window and looked up to see a security guard rush into the room. As he slipped into the driver's seat, he found himself staring straight into the guards incredulous face where he stood in the shattered opening. Dean started the engine and the guard drew his gun.  
For a second they just stared at each other. Then Dean threw the car into R and hit the gas as the man pulled the trigger twice. The shots went wide, one burying itself in the hood of the car and the other disappearing into the sunlit sky.

Dean didn't know if the man had missed on purpose but he wasn't exactly hoping to find out. Switching the car into D and cursing all automatics, he swerved out of the parking lot and onto the main street.

O

But of course it wasn't that simple.  
Dean had managed to park the Toyota with his unconscious brother somewhere safe and retrieve the Impala without incident.  
He'd carefully laid Sam out in the back seat of the muscle car. Then he'd proceeded to give the younger man a quick once over and assure himself that all stitches were in place and his brother wasn't about to top off a bad day by having a lung collapse.  
Unfortunately, all this had provided time for what Dean imagined to be a very pissed agent Hendriksen to get the area surrounded with road blocks.

But it wasn't for nothing that Dean had just spent a week with nothing to do but circle the town in his car. He doubted even it's own born and raised knew half the roads that he knew by now. And those were sure as hell not on whatever map the FBI was using.  
He'd found himself threading private roads, lost tracks and forest mud trails, as well as cutting across a few obscure meadows and clearings, and heartily apologizing to his baby all the way.  
Now, a long afternoon of white knuckling the steering wheel, they were close to the interstate again, but miles away from the scene of his Hulk stunt and the FBI's wrath.

Dean slowed down (even more) and swerved slightly to avoid a nasty jagged rock in the middle of the path.  
He'd get back on the interstate and head to Bobby's. It was only about two days drive to South Dakota, two days and then they could rest. Dean groaned.  
Every bone in his body ached, his ears were buzzing and those damn dark spots in front of his eyes had developed their own synchronized swimming patterns. He was amazed that he hadn't actually thrown up yet and didn't feel he could push his luck much further.  
Spotting a small clearing to the side of the road, he eased the car into it and killed the engine.

Dean assured himself yet again that Sam was okay and not about to bleed to death, and then retrieved the first aid kit from the trunk. Deciding most of his own injuries could wait, he only dressed the cut in his palm, which was still bleeding profusely.  
Actually, his hands were pretty well torn up from the dramatic window smashing, but he was just too tired to give a crap.  
After dressing the cut, he crawled back into the front seat and then folded up his jacket on the passenger side. He left the driver's seat door open, it had been a long time since he actually fit in the car horizontal (although, the last time he'd tried had turned out very nicely...).  
The weary young man stretched out and allowed the sunlight that streamed through the windshield to warm his groaning muscles. Then he thought better of it and retrieved a gun from the trunk to slide under his makeshift pillow. He was tired not stupid.

Still, the brothers were both alive, if not exactly in one piece, and neither the bad guys not the good guys knew where they were. It was probably as safe as a Winchester was likely to get these days.

Listening to the calming sound of his brothers breathing in the back seat, Dean closed his eyes and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

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**AN/ **Okay, I'm honestly proud of myself this week. I wrote this bit from scratch, almost finished a new story I'll be posting after this and finished a new chap to Narrate (which I will be continuing soon. Promise. ). Why am I proud of this? Because this is also the week I decided to move out of the country at the end of the month, and packing up your whole life does keep you... occupied. One ulcer coming up? U bet :)

Anyways, hope this chap was up to scratch, next one is the last. And wish me luck in the big wide world, I'll probably need it :)


	8. Chapter 7

**Nothing More To Say** by **Youthere**

All the standard **disclaimers **apply. This does get kinda **violent**, and when is the **language** ever pretty?

Bulletbabe over at Supernaturalville did **beta **a seventh chapter. Unfortunately, it wasn't this one. I seem to have a horrible habit of rewriting everything just before I post it, so yet again: mea culpa :)

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SEVEN

Dean nudged the door of the motel room closed with his elbow, holding a disposable container in each hand. Bobby had gone back to South Dakota earlier in the day and it had fallen to the slightly less battered brother to stagger into the local diner, smile and nod at the counter girl and point to things on the menu.  
Of course, since Sam could hardly swallow and Dean couldn't chew, he was mostly pointing to soup. Hearing the sickening slosh of liquid against styrofoam when he picked up his "food", Dean had briefly briefly debated attempting to drown himself in one of the containers. But well, that was just too horrible a way to go.

They'd never made it further towards Bobby's than this tiny, shabby motel just off the interstate.  
Dean had managed about an hour's drive, after coming to again in the Impala's front seat, but eventually he'd had to admit that you can only ignore a concussion for so long. When the centerlines are starting to weave around, independent form the rest of the road, you are probably not up for taking care of a little brother with a hole in his neck. So he'd pulled over at the nearest motel and simply texted Bobby their coordinates.  
Later, he had to wonder if his friend wasn't a pessimist by nature. Based simply on the text, he had deduced the need for medical aid and called in a favor with an ex army medic he knew in the area. The man had made it there in two hours and Bobby himself had arrived just under a day later.  
Of course, by the time he got there, Dean had already been too out of it to realize that the drive should have taken him two days. Apparently Bobby was a pessimist with a Batmobile.

But now it was just the Winchesters again; bruised and battered, mute and quite heavily medicated, but essentially all right.  
Dean made his way into the room, a nondescript little box with oatmeal colored walls and a carpet that probably used to be green. He handed a container to his brother, who had been sitting on one of the box beds reading. Then he settled with the other one on his own bed.

Sam opened his container and grimaced as the smell of mushroom soup wafted up from it; it was the only soup he really hated. He glared up at his brother with narrowed eyes.  
The older man just shrugged, wearing an expression of helpless innocence. He was mute after all; he could hardly be blamed if sometimes waitresses got things wrong.  
Sam continued to stare his big brother down and Dean couldn't help the mischievous grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Seeing it, the younger brother simply sighed and unwrapped his plastic spoon, mouthing something that looked a lot like "JERK". Then he gave his own wicked grin, fished a light pink straw out of a drawer and handed it to his big brother, enthusiastically helpful.  
Dean grabbed the straw sullenly and sent his gloating brother the finger.  
Then he decided he couldn't be bothered with the stupid soup, anyway, and snatched the remote off his night stand instead. He flipped through the channels one by one, steadily ignoring his Sam, who went back to reading.

Infomercials, soaps and one Dr. Phil episode flitted past, as Dean thumbed the buttons of the remote idly. The T.V. was old and the reception crap, but he'd seen worse. At last his browsing came to a halt on a rerun of _Die Hard_ and he settled back against the headboard to watch, very carefully setting the volume just above comfort level.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam look up with a thunderous expression.  
The younger man started making slashing motions at his own neck, frantically signaling for his brother to cut the noise, but Dean ignored him, apparently deeply engrossed in a fight scene.  
A moment later a punch on the arm had him looking questioningly up at his little brother, who now stood over him repeating the slashing movement, brows almost touching the tip of his nose in an impressive scowl.  
It was pretty clear what was being relayed, but Dean simply shrugged in willful incomprehension.  
Sam's glower became a weary eye roll, but his brother was still determined not to have any idea what he was saying.  
At last the younger brother sighed and trudged over to his own night stand. There, he went to retrieve that instrument of utter geekishness; an honest -to -god writing slate. Dean raised his eyebrows mockingly and gave Sam a Boy Scout salute. It just figured Sammy would have gotten himself one of those.

Seeing his brother's expression, Sam decided there was an even better use for the board and chucked it at Dean. The older man deflected it easily and retaliated by throwing a pillow at his little brother who, to Dean's great satisfaction, didn't duck in time but caught it squarely in the face.  
With narrowed eyes, Sam reached behind himself and retrieved his own pillow and then threw both at his brother, hard.  
Dean grinned evilly; the kid was nothing if not predictable. With a victorious air he arranged both pillows against his own headboard and then leaned back comfortably, giving his full attention to the television again. _Teach him to throw things at the older and wiser. _  
He surreptitiously lowered the volume again, but otherwise ignored his seething brother. The channel he'd found was pretty awesome, because when McClane had finished his bad guy pummeling, a familiar tune drifted out into the room. _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ was on.

Dean chuckled as he remembered a six year old Sammy who had watched that movie without permission.  
Well, okay, Dean had let him. How was he supposed to know the kid would take it so seriously? But for a week afterwards Sam had eaten nothing but Fruit Loops, claiming that everything else was "monkey brains".  
It hadn't stopped until Dean had informed him that the only thing that was monkey brains were the pink loops. And not only that, but the green loops? Dried monkey snot.  
Of course this had led to Sam saying a permanent goodbye to one of his favorite foods, but at least he started eating other stuff again so Dean had to call it a win. And lesson learned: _don't let Sammy watch gross stuff._

Dean looked over at his little brother, who sat on his own bed still glaring.  
Grinning, he hooked a thumb at Sam and then covered his own eyes. _You're not allowed to watch. _  
Sam gave a reluctant smile, obviously also remembering the monkey brain issue. He got up from his bed and walked over to Dean, who was still hogging both pillows. With a less than gentle shove Sam got his brother to scoot over and settled against the headboard, pulling one of the pillows behind himself. This resulted in an impressive scuffling session but eventually the two brothers settled down to watch the movie.  
After a moment, Sam got up and retrieved the rest of his soup from his own night stand. Then he picked up Dean's container, pierced the still sealed lid with the straw and shoved it at his brother with a look that brooked no objections. Dean rolled his eyes but took the offered dinner, both brothers turning their attention back to Indy's exploits.

Granted, watching a guy battle evil cultists for an object of great power isn't as wildly impressive when that's pretty much your day at the office. But they let themselves get carried away with it anyway. They sat there for the rest of the night; the bluish glow from the screen flickering over them in companionable silence, broad shoulders squashed together on the cheap, rickety bed, almost too small to hold two grown men.  
Scooting a bit lower on his half of the bed, Dean shot a surreptitious glance at his brother, who sat half asleep against the headboard with the empty container still cradled in his large hands.  
He shrugged to himself. Bloody Pollyanna just may have had a point.

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**AN:** Aaaand cut! So that's it for this story...thanks for reading:) I hope everyone enjoyed it. Thanks for leaving your comments and alerting and faving (gosh!), and also if you didn't, I'm glad to know someone took the time to read this thing...

On the matter of self promotion: I'm still posting my story Narrate and I'll be starting up with another one as soon as I get it beta'd. Won't be long.

So, any last thoughts? Comments? Goodbyes? :)

Cheers yt


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